


you're sweet like sugar

by whoisliina (isaacbahey)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Brotherly Love, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mario is terrible at baking, disgusting baking fluff honestly, some cussing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacbahey/pseuds/whoisliina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mario bakes the 10-million-Facebook-fans cake.<br/>Except he's terrible at it and needs help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're sweet like sugar

**Author's Note:**

> this jumped into my head as soon as I saw the video of him promising to bake a cake and today, I had time to write it down.  
> thank you to [lucorka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lucorka/pseuds/lucorka) for screaming with me about this!
> 
> none of this real, most probably.

The ten million Facebook fans feel a bit like a punishment right now.

This is the third cake Mario has fucked up today, and he’s contemplating quitting. And possibly murder. Fabian should really get out of their apartment, because he might be in mortal peril soon. Especially because Mario hears a laugh from the living room every time he swears at something. He’s been on-and-off laughing for _hours_.

The cake is sitting on the counter, looking like it’s laughing at him, with its frosting all over the place, and why did no one tell him beforehand that you should let the cake cool before decorating it?!

Mario thinks of the remnants of the first two attempts in the trash and wants to scream. The kitchen is a fucking nightmare already, a thin layer of flour and baking powder and sugar and god knows what else covering seemingly every single surface. He burnt his finger with cake #2, and it still hurts. It’s 11pm and he hates everything.

Why did he agree to make a fucking cake?! He is not good at cooking. Like, at all.

There’s only one thing he can do, even though he’ll never live it down. He washes his hands, soaks his burnt finger under cold water again, and then grabs his phone, which is unharmed so far.

“Jerome? I need you to help me with this goddamn cake.”

And Jerome laughs, but says he’ll be over anyway, because he is just that great. He even promises to stay over, which is significantly better than him making the cake - no, _him helping Mario make the cake_ \- and then leaving in the middle of the night.

Jerome arrives at 11.24, and Mario rips off his apron - covered in flour, like everything else - to run to the hallway and pull him in a tight hug.

“You are the best,” he says, one ear pressed against Jerome’s chest, and feels Jerome’s laughter more than he hears it.

“Come on, you disaster, let’s bake a cake,” he says and ruffles Mario’s hair. A small cloud of flour escapes from it, and Jerome stares at Mario with one brow raised. Mario looks sheepish, runs a hand over Jerome’s chest to make sure he hasn’t left any flour on his shirt, and then walks to the kitchen. Jerome greets Fabian on his way there, and Fabian answers with laughter and a “good luck”.

“Shut up,” Mario calls to him, which is followed by more laughter.

And it doesn’t stop, because now Jerome is standing at the doorway, staring at the mess that is Mario’s kitchen, and he sounds incredulous, but he’s definitely laughing. Mario scoffs and throws Fabian’s apron at him.

“I told you I needed help,” he says, sounding a little bit insulted. He turns his back to Jerome, taking all the ingredients out again, but his frown disappears when he feels Jerome’s arms wrap around his waist.

“Sorry. I’ll help now,” Jerome murmurs into his ear, presses a kiss into his hair and pulls away. Mario faces him, smiling again.

“You better,” he replies, handing Jerome the things he took from the cupboard.

Jerome is a lot more calm in the kitchen than Mario is. He assists Mario with everything, helps him measure the right amount of flour and teaches Mario to crack eggs without getting yolk all over his hands and pushes everything unnecessary further away so Mario has less chance of accidentally knocking something over (which was the cause of all this goddamn flour all over the place). He doesn’t _do_ anything, just _helps_ , and it’s good because Mario is learning while not fucking it up. And he’s patient and encouraging, kissing Mario on the cheek when he fills the measuring spoon with baking powder without anything spilling and running fingers down his arm when he gets no butter on his fingers at all.

He’s just… great.

Mario sticks a large spoon in the bowl, moves it around eagerly, when Jerome stops him gently.

“Calm down, Mario,” he says, chuckling. “It’ll go all over the place like this. You have to do it slowly.” He takes Mario’s hand, presses himself against his back and moves the spoon - and Mario’s hand - slowly, evenly. Mario smiles because this is every single rom-com ever, but he enjoys it anyway. He leans his head back against Jerome’s shoulder, lips pouted, and Jerome laughs before kissing him.

“Focus, you butt,” he says, nudging Mario with his shoulder. Mario grins, nudges Jerome with his elbow for the “butt” and turns his attention back to the batter. It’s looking good, flowy and delicious, and Mario wants to stick his finger in it, but Jerome stops him before he can even raise said finger.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, and if Mario didn’t hear him holding back laughter, he’d be scared.

The batter goes from the bowl to the pan with surprising ease, and even though Mario wants to cuddle up or maybe sleep a little bit, he needs to clean this mess up. So, most of the baking time is spent wiping flour off of _everything_ and putting things away and washing the dishes and glancing through the glass of the oven door every now and then. It starts to smell like chocolate pretty soon and Fabian, finally sick of video games, comes into the kitchen when the cake is almost ready.

“Already?” he asks, looking at the oven. “Mario spent at least an hour making the batter. Three times.”

Jerome laughs and Mario shoots his brother a murderous look.

“Don’t laugh at me, you dick. You’re no better at this than me. If you were, I would’ve asked you for help. You suck.”

Fabian laughs at that, but doesn’t argue. Damn right. He would’ve fucked this up even more, probably. If that’s possible.

Fabian pats Mario on the cheek, laughs again when Mario slaps him for it and retreats to his own room. Probably to sleep. It’s past midnight, already.

When Mario turns back to Jerome, the man is taking the cake out of the oven. From what Mario can see, it’s the prettiest of the four attempts, by far. He hugs Jerome from behind, now, and whispers a “thank you” into his back. When he’s put the cake down, Jerome turns around in his arms to hug him properly.

“Anytime,” he replies and kisses Mario gently. They take their time with it, their first proper kiss of the night, because now, for once, they have time. Jerome cups Mario’s cheeks, Mario runs his fingers up and down Jerome’s back. When their lips separate, the men themselves don’t - Jerome’s arms end up around Mario’s shoulders and they hug each other for a long while.

“You’re the best,” Mario says again, and Jerome smiles.

“I know,” he replies, barely holding back laughter, and Mario smacks his shoulder for it.

“Dumbass,” he says, pulls away and plops down on one of the kitchen chairs. Jerome, still grinning, takes the other.

While the cake is cooling down, they chat and laugh quietly, just taking the time to be with each other, which is something they don’t get to do too often. There’s always someone there or something to do.

Right now, it’s just them and the cake.

It’s almost 1 in the morning when the cake is room-temperature and they can start frosting. This is a more delicate job than making the batter, and even though Jerome is there to help, Mario gets frosting on a lot of places in addition to the cake. The end result is cool, though, way better than what Mario expected. A cake that he made actually looks good and is probably edible. Mario suddenly feels hungry.

That thought flies out of his head for a while when Jerome carefully takes his hand, holds it up by a bit that’s not covered in frosting, and gently licks it off. Mario stares at him, his eyes wide, but Jerome just grins a little bit, keeps licking his fingers, and Mario is not sure if this cute as fuck or hot as fuck, but even if Jerome wanted to leave at some point, Mario would not let him now.

“You’re clumsy,” Jerome says when he’s more or less done, an explanation or an apology or a joke, and Mario doesn’t even get mad. He just kisses Jerome again, and it’s amazing. Overwhelmingly sugary, but amazing.

“You taste sweet,” he says when he pulls away, and they both laugh.

“One more cliché and I’m leaving you,” Jerome replies and kisses Mario’s forehead.

It’s three in the morning and Mario is sleepy and hungry and happy and everything at once. He looks at the cake, and it looks delicious. His stomach growls.

“Jerome?” he asks quietly.

“Oh no,” Jerome replies, already understanding what Mario wants.

“We can make a new one tomorrow,” Mario says, looking up at Jerome with his best puppy eyes, and he can see when Jerome’s resolve crumbles.

“We’re _not_ eating the whole thing,” he says, though, and Mario agrees. He knows how he gets with sugar at night. But he needs to have this cake.

So of course they eat the damn cake. There’s always tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you if you made it here! <3
> 
> and if you wanna, i am [gotzeidank](http://gotzeidank.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
